Fool's Errand
by R2s Muse
Summary: Three years after allowing Marian Hawke to escape Kirkwall, a disgraced Cullen is sent on a desperate quest to find her. Can he earn her trust in time to regain what he's lost and finally redeem them all for the role they played in igniting the mage-templar war? Set in 9:40, after the events of DA2 and Asunder. Rated T, but eventually a little bit M.
1. Interrogation

_**Fool's Errand**_

_**by R2s Muse**_

_Disclaimer: The Dragon Age setting and its characters belong to Bioware. I'm just borrowing!_

**_A/N: A new long fic started well before many DA: Inquisition details were known, Fool's Errand will follow what's now a slightly AU tale exploring why Cassandra thought Marian Hawke could stop the war and the plan for convincing her to do so._**

**_Special shoutout to the Cullen Thread's Page 1000 celebration, especially since my idea for this story germinated almost three years ago on the old, old Cullen thread. _**

**_Extra special thanks to my awesome beta, meanieweenie! Cover art by the talented Chenria._**

**_UPDATE: New illustration by JerHopp linked in my profile!_**

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**Chapter 1: Interrogation**

_9:40 Dragon_  
_Kirkwall Gallows_  
_Free Marches_

The heavily armored men dragged him roughly down a long half-lit hallway. The surface of the ancient stone floor was uneven, having been worn down by the feet of countless slaves and prisoners. He didn't bother trying to keep his feet any longer, preferring to let the guards do the work and tax themselves. An empty victory in a war long lost.

The hallway ended at a heavy oaken door bound in iron and flanked by two sputtering torches. The firelight glinted off the swords of mercy on the guards' breastplates as one man banged on the door.

A clipped command answered them through the door. "Come."

The guards heaved open the door and pulled him into the darkened room, setting him on his feet at last while his leg irons clanked in protest. The room was shrouded in shadows and lit only by a bright spot of light trained on an empty chair.

A woman with short, dark hair stood next to the chair with her feet planted and her arms crossed. The black eye and white sunburst on her dark armor told him almost everything he might care to know, were he to care. Seeker of Truth. Cassandra Pentaghast, it dimly occurred to him. Cool and calm as porcelain, her heart-shaped face betrayed no emotion. Her dark eyes were almost black in the dim lighting as they raked him over.

Of course, he knew what she saw and didn't wonder at the faint disgust that curled her lip for a moment. The bright light made the gaunt hollows even more pronounced under his eyes and where his collarbone stood out from the frayed neckline of his ragged tunic. An unkempt reddish beard obscured his face and his hair fell in tangled red-gold curls to his shoulders. His lean muscles now seemed stretched over his broad frame, making him look undernourished and wiry inside the ill-fitting rags he wore. Nevertheless, he stood tall, unbowed after his years of detention.

"Remove his restraints. Then leave us," she told the guards.

They quickly complied, unlocking the chains from his ankles and wrists and then quietly shutting the door behind them.

"Sit down," she said.

Out of habit, he focused on a neutral spot above her head where the dust motes hung in the air. The bright light drew iridescent blue highlights in her shiny black hair, almost like a raven's wing. He couldn't remember the last time he saw a raven.

When he didn't comply, she repeated, "Sit down, please." The _please_ actually caught his attention as little did anymore. Her face remained expressionless, but there was a telltale pause before the word. Cassandra Pentaghast must not use the word often.

He waited and did nothing. Another tiny, yet meaningless, insurrection. The only kind left to him.

He had to resist the urge to massage some normal feeling back into his wrists

She studied him coolly and finally, a flicker of annoyance passed across her face, revealing her calm expression to be only a facade. "Fine. You may stand as you wish. But, I had hoped to have a more relaxed conversation this time, Cullen."

The former Knight-Captain felt a distant flutter of surprise that her informal address could still rankle after all this time. Stripped of his rank, his standing, his freedom, all he had left was his name, such as it was. He continued to ignore the proffered chair.

"So," she started in an agreeable voice. "I have gained more information about the strange happenings here in Kirkwall since our last interview. Ultimately, it seems that your account of Meredith's madness was accurate. Her eccentricities were indeed caused by the rogue magic in that lyrium idol recovered from the Deep Roads."

She paused for a moment, but he still said nothing.

"Frankly, your story of statues coming to life in service to a flying, glowing abomination was too fantastical to be believed over the cold hard facts that you had turned on your superior officer in support of a known agitator, this Champion of Kirkwall. And, yet, it appears that such peculiar occurrences have been afoot in Kirkwall for many years now.

"The part I still do not understand, however, is how the Champion escaped." She paused again, watching him carefully. He still did not respond, although a small muscle in his jaw began to twitch involuntarily.

"I understand that your orders were to arrest her, and yet following the battle, you instructed your men to allow her and her companions to leave. Can you not shed more light on this for us?" she said in a bright reasonable voice that belied the hard intensity of her eyes.

Finally, Cullen's eyes shifted briefly to her face, considering what sort of response he could give. The silence lengthened.

Then, as if out of nowhere, a woman with short red hair stepped out of the shadowed corner of the room where presumably she'd been standing all along. Only Cullen's long years of training stopped him from physically starting at her sudden appearance. Her blue eyes were fringed with dark eyelashes and her face might have been described as sweet if it weren't for the studied lack of emotion she displayed. He felt a flicker of recognition but couldn't immediately place her.

She gave a brief, friendly smile that did not reach her eyes and said in a strong Orlesian accent, "Oh, but we now know a bit more than this, no? Was it not true that you were, in fact, her friend? It is this friendship we are here to discuss today."

The woman stepped further into the light. She was dressed in dark travel leathers, a contrast from Cassandra's heavy armor. The Orlesian approached him and motioned to the chair. "You will not sit?"

When he merely stared at her, she made a moue of disappointment and then sat down herself. She lounged back in the chair, giving the appearance that she was relaxed even though her eyes were cautious and alert.

"I know that you have not been rewarded for your truths over these past three years, but I would like for you think of this as your chance to set the record straight." The red-headed woman smiled again, obviously thinking that she would set him at ease with this cold upturn of her lips.

He remained silent, not seeing any benefit to rehashing the old memories, the veracity of which even he himself had begun to question over the years.

"If we find what we seek, we may even be able to . . . modify your sentence." Cassandra said grudgingly.

Cullen's eyes darted between the two women and his tongue wet his dry and cracked lips. "What exactly do you want to know?" he finally asked, his voice creaking from lack of use.

"How well did you really know Hawke? What were your interactions like? Did she trust you?" Cassandra asked.

Cullen's eyes flashed as he was assailed by an rogue surge of long-forgotten emotion. He quickly suppressed it and his brow furrowed a bit as he puzzled over this strange line of questioning. He had considered Hawke a friend, but that was long ago. They had never been close. They had worked together several times over the years and he had always thought very highly of her. He told them as much. They interrupted him from time to time with questions about the details of some of his dealings with the Champion, and he answered to the best of his ability, his response short and clipped, almost to the point of being rude. Not that it mattered.

Oddly, most of their questions focused on his personal interactions with Hawke, which was starting to make him a bit uncomfortable. He had no idea what Hawke actually thought of him personally. He hadn't interacted with her socially, given her status as both the Champion and a noble, but he could vaguely remember a time when once he would have liked to. However, he kept these traitorous thoughts to himself.

"Hawke had earned my respect, and Meredith was subverting the true purpose of the Order. That was why I supported the Champion. And, why I ultimately let her go. At the time, it was the right thing to do." His tone was neutral, his words curt.

"But, would you say she trusted you?" Cassandra repeated, obviously not getting the answers she was looking for.

"Honestly, I don't know. We fought on the same side on several occasions and the battlefield breeds its own brand of trust." Cullen wasn't sure what else he could say.

Cassandra seemed to consider his response for moment, so the other woman got to her feet and took over the questioning. "What were your interactions with her companions?"

Cullen shrugged. "I believe I've met some of them."

The room fell silent as both women stood with arms crossed and watched him. In another life, he might have fidgeted under the scrutiny, but he was now accustomed to waiting, patiently and incuriously. After three years of sitting in a prison cell, with no hope of release, he could easily wait them out 'til they deigned to continue questioning him. What were a few minutes when he'd gone weeks without saying a single word?

However, he realized he actually was curious now, an unfamiliar feeling now that his days merely blended into one another. Discomfited, he decided instead to act on his curiosity.

"So, do you now believe I acted in the right against Meredith?" he asked dully, still not able to summon up any real hope.

"From what I have learned from the dwarf Varric, indeed, it seems your actions were warranted in some sense. Although, you still were insubordinate," Cassandra said.

"So, does this mean I might have my sentence reduced? Or, even be released?" He heard his voice break as he tried to beat back the hope that threatened to burst through.

The women exchanged a glance and then nodded to each other over some private understanding.

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves," Cassandra said.

The red-headed Orlesian added, "The Maker and the Divine have plans for you."

Cullen's foolish spark of hope was quashed, his fantasies of freedom slipping away again. Of course, they wanted something.

The Orlesian started to pace slowly before him. "You know, the world has changed since you were imprisoned. Perhaps you've heard the murmurings. Thedas is at war. The Circle of Magi is no more, with the mages having finally declared their freedom. The templars now hunt and destroy them, while the mages no longer scruple to use their power to fight back. There have been significant casualties on both sides as well as those caught in the cross-fire. Divine Justinia seeks a peaceable solution, before the war consumes us all."

"Then why not simply order the templars to quit the field?"

The Orlesian stopped her pacing, becoming very still except for the agitated flaring of her nostrils. "The Order no longer recognizes Chantry authority. They have broken the Nevarran Accord."

That revelation almost shocked him. _That explains a few things._ He had noticed fewer templars around the Gallows, fewer people he recognized, more guardsmen from the city. More fear. Now he could see why they were so desperate.

Cassandra stepped in. "We need someone from outside the conflict. Someone respected by both sides who can make them listen. Who can convince them to come to the peace table and find a better way for Thedas. We need the Champion. However, she has been missing these three years since she left Kirkwall that night. Vanished without a trace. We want you to find her. Find her and convince her to help stop this madness."

Silence fell in the room once again, although Cassandra's words still rang in Cullen's ears. Such a mission obviously meant leaving his cell. Leaving the Gallows and Kirkwall. Leaving behind his shame, if that were even possible. But did it really mean freedom?

The women watched his reaction closely, still careful to reveal little themselves. Again, they waited for him to speak.

"Why?" he said at last.

Cassandra still watched him impassively, but the Orlesian's face crinkled up in confusion at his question. "Why save Thedas? Why bring us back from the brink of chaos?" the red-head asked.

Then Cassandra smirked. "Why should _you_ do this? Cullen, do this, and you will earn the Divine's blessing and forgiveness. Do this, and you may regain your templar title and commission."

Now he was truly curious and he didn't like it. The Seeker continued to smirk at him, knowing she now had his full attention. He studied the two women, hating that they had piqued his interest in their schemes. Schemes that had nothing to do with him. What did he care if the world destroyed itself?

He felt a faint twinge of guilt at this thought, like he was exercising a muscle he had not used in too long. But, it wasn't enough to make him want to get involved in this nonsense. On the other hand, he wasn't yet sure what he'd be willing to do for freedom. It had been too long since he'd considered it. He decided that it couldn't hurt to know more first.

He licked his lips nervously again. "What makes you think _I_ could find her?"

The women shared another long look. "Let's just say, we have reason to believe that will be the easy part," the Orlesian said with a little smile.

"And, why would she agree?"

Cassandra snorted. "A hero of her caliber, ignoring such an opportunity to make a difference in the world? She has taken on far less noble missions."

Something still didn't quite add up. If this was such an easy task, then why did they need him? "This is hardly worth my freedom. What else?" he asked, suspicion coloring his question.

"She will need help in this task," Cassandra replied. "You will join her. Help her if you can."

"We need someone on the inside," the Orlesian added. "Someone to accompany her. Help direct her. Someone who can be the eyes and ears of the Divine without alerting anyone to our direct involvement."

His eyes narrowed as he started to realize what they really expected from him. "You want me to spy on her."

"Spy is such a crude word, don't you think? Perhaps you should think of yourself as her guide. No one can interfere with the success of this mission. Not even the Champion herself. The Chantry will do whatever is necessary to end the war. You will be our divine instrument." The Orlesian's voice rang out with these words, like she truly believed they would be doing the Maker's work.

He snorted. _Divine instrument_ was a nice way of saying that, whatever his sins during this mission—and they clearly would be many—he would ultimately be forgiven. And, probably posthumously. "So, you want me to do your dirty work. Why can't the Divine intervene directly?"

The guarded look crept into the Orlesian's eyes again. "There are rumors afoot that the Divine has developed a sympathy for the mages. This is why we need an outsider. The negotiations will be delicate and we must avoid such slanderous perceptions tilting the balance." Despite the woman's intimation of slander, her reaction nevertheless suggested that these were more than just rumors. If the Divine really had sided with the mages against the templars, well then the world truly had changed while he'd been away.

"You really expect her to stop a war. One woman." It wasn't really a question, but it betrayed his growing interest.

"It can be astonishing what one woman can accomplish. Take the Hero of Ferelden, for example. Whom I believe you know?" The red-haired woman studied him intently as she said this, sparking another memory, the feeling that they'd met before, but he still couldn't place her. Yes, he had known Solona Amell, but that was another lifetime. He wasn't about to discuss her with these women. He looked more carefully at the Orlesian, finally realizing that she was older than her delicate features suggested upon first glance. And, more cunning. Who was she in all of this?

Acknowledging his silence with a tilt of her head, the woman continued. "Anyway, Hawke will not be alone. She will have you, no? You are our insurance policy against failure." The Orlesian gave him another mechanical smile.

Cullen didn't like the way she said the word _failure_. "What if the war can't be stopped? The mages are unlikely to give back such hard-won freedom. This is a fool's errand."

"You had better hope that is not the case. Your future, indeed all of our futures, depend on it."

Cassandra added, "Ensure the mission's success, and you will earn you reward. Your reinstatement. Your _permanent _freedom."

He almost smiled at the irony in her words. Templars were never truly free. Nevertheless, it had to be better than what he had now. He supposed anything was. He couldn't think just yet about the real implications of such a future. Only that it would get him outside again. Dying in prison or beneath the open sky? That choice was clear.

"So will you do this? For the Chantry? For Thedas?" the Orlesian asked.

He nodded slowly but knew that he did it for himself alone. "I will."

"Good. Cassandra will give you whatever details and resources you might need. When next we meet, in this life or the next, may we all be at peace." She then turned on her heel and headed to the door.

As her hand fell on the latch, Cullen was surprised to hear himself ask, "Who are you?"

She paused then looked at him over her shoulder. "I am Sister Nightingale, and I will be watching." Then she was gone.

ooXXoo

Varric had to squint into the bright afternoon sunlight after the dimness of Cassandra's makeshift base at the Gallows. Her latest invitation had been significantly more gentile than the first, seeming to actually allow him the option of refusing her request for an interview this time. She'd even said _please_. So he had come to the Gallows and listened to her renewed entreaties for help in finding the Champion. His answers, however, had remained the same as during his initial interrogation two days before: he couldn't help the Seeker.

While his eyes adjusted, he looked around the Gallows' courtyard, unconsciously doing his usual threat assessment. Standing somewhat forlornly in the middle of the courtyard was someone he hardly recognized, despite the fact that the man had once been a familiar sight out here.

Varric approached him, eyes still trying to confirm what his head had trouble acknowledging. "Cullen?" Varric was shocked at the man's changed appearance. Once a shining testament to templar perfection and tidiness, Cullen was now a hollow, grimy mess. Thin and gaunt, he was wearing an ill-fitting, mismatched set of clothes, but no armor. Thrust without scabbard through his old, worn belt was a dull-looking sword that was badly in need of sharpening. It was also clear that it had been some time since he'd encountered a razor. Or a bath. Varric gave a low whistle. "Andraste's ass, what hole did they drop you in?"

Cullen looked back at the Gallows with hooded, expressionless eyes. "I don't think you can see it from here," he said dully.

Varric wasn't sure if the man was intending to make a joke or not. "By the Stone, what did they do to you? You haven't been in prison this entire time, have you?"

Cullen's eyes squinted up to the sky briefly. "They let me out in the yard every month or two." His voice was still inflectionless but much rougher than Varric remembered.

Varric was horrified as he tried to imagine what the man had been through. "Was this all because of what happened with Meredith?"

"It seems so."

"I . . . You know, words don't often fail me, Templar, but today they do."

Something flashed deep in Cullen's eyes. "Fail indeed, dwarf. I am no longer a templar."

"Ah, my mistake." He gave another low whistle. "Cullen, you look like you've been chewed up and spat from the Abyss itself. Did they just let you go?"

"It seems they are now in possession of the truth about why Meredith really died. I am . . . free . . . to go." Cullen suddenly sounded so lost, his face creased in confusion, that Varric had a flash of guilt. But then, who could ever have guessed that setting the record straight with Cassandra would have resulted in the man being set adrift in this way?

"Look, where are you headed?" Varric asked.

In response, the man looked out across the harbor surrounding the Gallows, eyes focused on the horizon, and did not immediately answer. Varric made some quick decisions.

"All right, you're coming with me. First we'll get you cleaned up and travel ready. Then, we're heading out of town."

Cullen frowned. "Where to?"

"I'm meeting some old friends." Varric clapped him on the shoulder. "And, we don't want to be any later than we already are, so let's get going."

ooXXoo

Sister Nightingale smiled. She and Cassandra stood side by side at the window, watching the former templar and the dwarf talk in the courtyard below.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Leliana," Cassandra said.

"Trust me," Leliana said. "The dwarf was lying. He knows exactly where the Champion is. He will now want to alert her. And, Cullen has nowhere else to go. The dwarf will lead him right to her."

"But do you think Cullen can do everything that needs to be done?" Cassandra was frowning down at their _divine instrument_.

"Oh yes. You just need to have faith." She smiled as the dwarf clapped the taller man on the arm and started to walk away. After a long look around the Gallows courtyard, Cullen turned to follow.

Without taking her eyes of them, Leliana added, "I met him briefly in Ferelden once, you know. I've seen the depth of his fear, his capacity for hate." She looked over at Cassandra. "Did you not see his eyes when we first mentioned the woman Hawke? She is responsible for his years of incarceration. He befriended her, supported her against Meredith, and in return, he was punished while she left Kirkwall without a backward glance." She looked down again at the mismatched pair as they disappeared out the portcullis to the harbor. "When the need arises, I don't think he would have a moment's hesitation in betraying her."

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**_A/N2: _Chapter 2: The Taste of Freedom_ will be posted within the week or so, maybe sooner, where we'll get to see how Cullen adjusts to the outside world again. I hope to keep updating this on about a weekly basis. Thanks so much for reading!_**

**_UPDATE: Chapter 2 still coming soon... once its illustration is done. tee hee heee!_**


	2. The Taste of Freedom

_**Fool's Errand**_

_**by R2s Muse**_

_Disclaimer: The Dragon Age setting and its characters belong to Bioware. I'm just borrowing!_

_**A/N: Don't forget to check out my profile for this Chapter's illustration by the talented JerHopp!**_

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_**Chapter Summary: **Cullen adjusts to freedom while following Varric's complicated plan for finding Hawke._

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**Chapter 2: The Taste of Freedom**

_Gwaren  
Ferelden_

In the weeks that followed, freedom didn't taste quite as sweet as Cullen had anticipated. So far it had involved a stomach-churning sea voyage and several weeks of waiting around in smelly Fereldan taverns, which was about as eventful as his days of incarceration. He didn't even know what they were waiting for, although he could only assume it was Hawke. He didn't want to ask for fear of seeming too eager for the answer.

Of course, their purpose in the busy seaport of Gwaren was about the only thing Varric wasn't forthcoming about. Cullen was finally up to date on the happenings of the world, since Varric was never without a tale to tell and seemed to fear silence. Fortunately, the dwarf took no issue with these invariably one-sided conversations as Cullen readjusted to life outside. Life around people.

Cullen grunted non-committally at the blowzy barmaid who had delivered his pint of ale and then tried to engage him in a breathy conversation about the weather. Finally giving up, she gave him a saucy wink and sauntered away with an exaggerated sway of her hips while the other nearby patrons glared at him distrustfully. He sighed and hunkered down over the drink he had ordered for appearances' sake.

Life outside prison was still unfamiliar, like a distantly remembered dream. It was also unpredictable, a fact that made him both anxious and exhilarated. Gone was the quiet monotony of scheduled guard changes and mealtimes, replaced by an unruly chaos of sight and sound. The town's colorfully painted shutters and fading banners contrasted with muddy thoroughfares and the monotonous gray of the buildings' slate roofs. The market square overflowed with merchants hawking their wares and gossiping townsfolk of inconstant character. The lulling sound of the sea was punctuated by chantry bells, the snap and groan of sails and ship rigging, and the lowing of oxen pulling creaking wagons. He was beginning to appreciate the disorder, for a change, but from a comfortable distance.

He still avoided directly interacting with people, other than Varric, and crowds made him especially nervous. He could now sit in the busy taproom of the tavern where they stayed, so long as he was seated far from the action and preferably in a corner with his back safely against the wall. Luckily, the salty seadogs and randy deck hands that frequented the dockside establishment were suspicious enough of outsiders that they gave him a wide berth in any event. The barmaid, on the other hand, had been more difficult to discourage.

He recognized that part of his discomfort was that he felt almost naked without templar armor. He had worn the heavy plate emblazoned with the Order's distinctive sword of mercy his entire adult life. At least, up until recently. It wasn't just the cliché symbolism of the uniform representing all that he had lost. He immediately shunted away the sudden pain that licked around the edge of that unexamined thought. Nor was it the more practical protective aspect of the armor, although it certainly was superior to that offered by the second-hand plate he now wore. No, what he missed was a different kind of protection: the virtual shield the armor had provided against the world, against the curious, the impertinent and the belligerent. No one questioned a templar.

"Hello?"

Cullen looked up from the untouched pint to focus on a slip of a girl with flat brown hair and new chantry robes. Her large, round eyes darted around the boisterous tavern and she jumped nervously when a nearby group of sailors abruptly broke into raucous laughter. Cullen stared at her in silence until she looked back at him again.

"Hello?" she repeated.

"Yes?"

"I . . . I have a message for M-Master Varric. From the Revered Mother." The girl looked at him askance, her eyes noting his rough appearance, the hollows around his eyes, his long mane of twisted curls, and the heavy red beard that still obscured his face. Although he had started to gain back some of the weight he had lost, he had followed Varric's suggestion that retaining the long hair and beard would help him remain incognito. He could also admit that he wasn't ready to fully bare himself to the world yet. Not when he could still shield himself in some small way from prying eyes. The girl hesitated before asking, "You . . . you are his friend, right?"

Not the word he would have used, but Cullen nodded anyway.

"Here." She handed him a folded note and then jumped again as one of the sailors suddenly pounded the table in amusement at some joke they couldn't hear.

Cullen nodded again, which was enough of a response for the girl who promptly turned tail and fled. He went back to rolling the warming pint between his hands and watching the crowded room, uninterested in the contents of the note sitting on the stained wooden table.

About an hour later, Varric waltzed through the tavern door looking pleased with himself. He had spent his time since they arrived from Kirkwall mining Gwaren's citizenry for information, schmoozing here, bribing there. In order to avoid surprises, he said. As a result, they had been able to avoid the notice of the local guard and get a sense of the political undercurrents in Ferelden.

Like the rest of Thedas, Ferelden scrambled to adjust to the shift of power as the templars abandoned their traditional posts at the Chantries to join the war, and mages ran for their lives. Brazenly assuming sole responsibility for containing the mage threat, the Templar Order—led by the mysterious Seekers of Truth—retained control of the Circle towers for use as prisons in their war on the mages. This new scarcity of templars in most towns would make it easier for Varric and Cullen to avoid notice, but it also meant that local peacekeepers were now stretched beyond their means. Crime rates were already showing a marked increase.

Varric immediately headed for the dark corner where Cullen hid out without even waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. After so many weeks, Varric now knew his companion's habits. He sat down across from Cullen with a swish of his long coat and gently adjusted the enormous crossbow that lay across his back, which was curiously named Bianca for reasons the dwarf hadn't shared.

"A drink, Virna!" Varric shouted to the waitress. He rubbed his hands together and declared, "Good news! I hear there's been a sudden drop in bandit activity in the region. Hawke must be nearby." He then glanced briefly around the secluded corner, which boasted the only empty chairs in the crowded tavern. "Still making friends, I see," he said drily.

Cullen grunted and slid the Chantry note across the table to Varric. The barmaid dropped off another pint while the dwarf scanned the notes contents. Finishing, he looked up at Cullen and grinned broadly. "About time! Seems our wait is over, Templar."

Cullen ground his teeth. "I have asked you not to call me that."

"Yes, you have." Varric smiled again and took a long draught of his pint. He then took a handkerchief from pocket and wiped his mouth, the fastidious mannerism revealing the upper-class upbringing Varric tried to hide in his preference for such coarse establishments as the dockside tavern. The handsome dwarf's medium-length blond hair was pulled back, revealing that he still wore large gold rings in his ears, but he had put aside his flashier, chest-baring city clothes in favor of more practical travel leathers. "We'll need to get ready to move out. Drink up and we'll go see what the Revered Mother has for us."

Soon after Cullen was hovering on the threshold of Gwaren's small cathedral, waiting for the sense of peace and comfort he typically felt at the Chantry. But, again, nothing. Nothing but guilt at their deceitful purpose in coming there. _That must be the problem_. Hopefully once Varric's scheme was behind them, whatever it might be, he would be able to sense the Maker again.

A suspicious look from the guard at the entrance brought him back to himself, reminding him to be grateful that it was a city guardsman and not a templar scrutinizing him so closely.

He ducked his head and followed the dwarf down the broad nave toward the dais and then through a side door that led to the Revered Mother's office. The matronly clergywoman sat behind her desk, her robust size dwarfing the tiny chair upon which she sat. She rose awkwardly to her feet when Varric entered and clasped her hands. "Ah, Varric, there you are, dear. I'm glad you came so soon. I have good news! Your parents may now rest in peace, Maker watch over them. Someone has finally tracked down the villains who robbed them."

"Wonderful, Your Reverence. Please tell me who has been my deliverer, so that I may thank him or her."

"They have asked to remain anonymous but have returned your mother's locket. With blessed Andraste's sword of mercy, just like you described!" The Revered Mother rifled around in a locked drawer before handing a heavy golden locket to Varric. Engraved on the locket's surface was an upright sword surrounded by stylized flames inlaid with a darker, burnished copper. The locket was held shut with a small, intricate locking mechanism. "And, see, it is still safely locked."

"Thank the Maker," Varric said without a hint of irony.

"I knew that we could restore your faith, child. When you told me of how such devoted converts to the Maker's love could be taken from us so soon, and in such a brutal manner, I prayed to the Maker for help. And, some kindly soul has answered His call," the Revered Mother gushed.

"Maker be praised," Varric murmured.

Cullen had to work hard not to roll his eyes at the farce and descry Varric's blasphemy. Cullen was pretty sure that, being dwarven nobles, Varric's family members had not been Andrastian converts. He was also sure that they had not recently been slaughtered by a mysterious one-armed man who had taken Varric's mother's locket. Nevertheless, shortly after they had landed in Gwaren, Varric had set off for the local chantry where he had told this pitiable tale to the gullible Revered Mother. With Varric's penchant for storytelling—and, lying—she had accepted his tale, hook, line and sinker. She immediately had posted a notice to the chanter's board asking for some courageous adventurer to bring the culprits to justice and recover the heirloom for Varric.

In the subsequent weeks that they had waited in Gwaren, adventurers from every walk of life, from random street thugs to off-duty guardsmen, had tried to claim the sizable bounty Varric had laid on the elusive one-armed man. The upside was that a number of completely unrelated, minor criminals had been apprehended during the search. Cullen tried to be mindful of these unforeseen benefits since deceiving a Revered Mother was something that disturbed him deeply. He could only hope that somehow this ridiculous lie was going to help them find Hawke, so he kept his mouth shut.

Cullen distracted himself by watching the dust motes float through a beam of light slanting through the tall clerestory windows while Varric expounded on his praise for the anonymous adventurer and for the Revered Mother's kindness to a solitary surface dwarf. Thankfully, Varric stopped talking eventually, and they escaped with the locket back to their room at the tavern.

Sitting at the one table in their cramped quarters, Cullen watched silently as Varric drew off one of his rings and gave it a complicated twist. When a small cross-shaped key popped up on the ring, he then applied it with a few deft twists to the mechanism on the locket. With an audible click, the locket snapped open, and Varric drew out a compactly folded note from within the locket. He gently unfolded it and smoothed it out on the surface of the table.

Cullen canted his head to read the cramped chicken scratches and after some squinting, recognized what they were at last. "Directions?"

"Indeed, Templar. To the next stop in our journey. Luckily, this hollow doesn't seem to be far, so we can probably start off in the morning and be there before sunset."

Cullen watched him for a beat. "This wasn't your mother's locket."

Varric snorted. "An Andrastian locket? Great Ancestors, no. It's part of my system to find Hawke. I told you that she's been spending her time helping people out with their problems. She tends to frequent chanter's boards, so this was our way of getting her attention."

"And, there was no one-armed man."

"Of course not. That's our code word. I post a plea for help featuring the nefarious one-armed man and a lost locket. Hawke swoops in and claims the bounty, in the process returning the locket through official Chantry channels. We find out where she is. Easy as pie."

ooXXoo

_Easy as pie_. Cullen ground his teeth at these innocuous words as he looked over his shoulder again for the telltale signs that they were being followed through the dense wood. Hawke's directions sent them away from the coast on paths that were little traveled. With each turn, the wood became wilder and the road more isolated. The fading sun now struggled to reach them through the tangle of leaves, casting their twisting path into a lonely twilight. The bandits were likely to move in on them soon and the tension was making his body thrum with adrenaline.

He was just wondering how to warn Varric about the impending attack when he heard the dwarf give a heavy sigh. Without turning his head from where he led the way, Varric said in a low voice, "Well, I don't think we're going to shake them. You ready to make our stand now or should we string them along a little further?"

"No time like the present."

Varric grinned at him. "I like the way you think, Templar. All right, that next outcrop of rock, we'll turn and fight."

Cullen grunted in acknowledgment. From the movement he'd seen, they were significantly outnumbered anyway, so it was as good a plan as any.

Upon reaching the outcrop, they turned and waited in tense silence. Varric stood with Bianca at the ready and scanned the surrounding wood. Cullen gripped his newly acquired sword and shield, his palms sweating a bit as he compensated for the difference in weight and balance from his templar arms. Cullen heard Varric mutter under his breath, "Gotcha." With a faint twang, a bolt was away, followed by a distant cry of pain and then a shout. The shout was soon picked up by others, with multiple targets moving in toward them in a wide circle. Perhaps eight to ten men. Not great odds.

"Show time," Varric said, and then his crossbow was a blur of motion as it sent out volley after volley of suppressing fire. More cries revealed more bolts hitting their targets, although it wasn't clear if any of them had been removed from the fight.

It was several more heartbeats before the first bandits emerged from the cover of the wood. Cullen moved to intercept them before they could close in on Varric, and then instinct took over. His focus narrowed to the swing of his sword, the clang of blows deflecting off his shield, the shower of blood from a hit. As he moved methodically through the bandits, a quiet inner voice was grateful that his training was so instinctual that it automatically rose to the challenge, even after all this time.

A sharp pain in his bicep brought him out of his battle-induced haze and he glared at the garishly dressed man whose knife had just slipped through his guard. Cullen bellowed with rage and struck the man with the full force of his shield, dropping him heavily to the loamy earth. With the wind knocked out of him, the bandit gasped for air. Cullen stepped in to finish him when the man abruptly dropped his knives and held up his hands in supplication. "Stop! Wait!"

Cullen paused. "Tell me why I shouldn't end you here?" he asked, his sword arm holding rock steady as he pointed the tip at the man's neck.

"Because then you would also be dead."

Cullen risked a glance at the wood around them, finally noticing the archers whose deadly arrows were now trained on him. The archers were soon joined by several more swordsmen who moved out of the woods to circle them. Then were all dressed in patched and second-hand leathers, suggesting they weren't terribly good bandits. Varric lowered his crossbow and held up one hand in surrender. Cullen considered the odds for a moment more before stepping back slowly, but with blade still held at the ready.

The man stood up, brushing dirt off his clothes in an almost laughably meticulous manner. He adjusted his ostentatious red cravat, which clashed badly with his faded, green-striped doublet. His faux-aristocratic manner was completed by the large-brimmed hat he retrieved from the ground and set on his head at a jaunty angle.

"Nice hat," Varric remarked drily.

The man nodded his thanks at Varric. "Ahem. Now, look, I think we might have got off on the wrong foot. I am a businessman, see?" The man hooked his thumbs in his over-sized lapels and rocked on the balls of his feet. "I think we can all win here and avoid any further unpleasantry." The bandit looked pointedly at Cullen's still raised sword. "Please?"

Cullen didn't drop his arm but nodded slightly. "Continue."

The bandit sighed. "All right, look. We tried to find this one-armed man of yours, all honest-like. Honest work for honest pay, we say." Cullen snorted in disbelief. Seeming to give up on Cullen, the bandit leader turned instead to Varric. "We was lookin' hard. But we found no sign of this fellow anywhere in the area. Then, someone else comes along and claims the bounty, right out from under us. From under us!" He sniffed and looked down his nose at Varric. "All our hard work, wasted. Eh, boys?" He looked around at his men, who all nodded and continued to give him their rapt attention.

"But, now we figure someone who pays so well for vengeance likely has more to share, right? Especially that oh-so-valuable property he just had returned to him. So, we will alleviate you of that locket now, along with whatever coin you have. Then we may all go about our normal day. Fair-like, see? We finally get compensated for our substantiable efforts. And, you get to be alive. Everybody wins." He beamed at them as if this were a truly fair deal.

Silence fell in the small clearing as Varric made a show of considering this ridiculous offer, looking down and rubbing his beardless chin in a thoughtful way. Cullen slowly shifted his weight, preparing to attack the instant Varric rejected it. Then, out of the blue, a new voice floated across the clearing. "Perhaps you should take up your complaint with the person who actually claimed the bounty then, hmm, friend?"

Everyone's heads spun around, searching for the source, and eventually looked up to the top of the rocky outcrop behind them. Standing at the rock edge above them was a lithe, dark-haired woman dressed all in dark leather.

_Hawke_.

A shock ran through Cullen at the sight of her, still larger than life, still impossibly composed in the face of staggering odds. Just like the last time . . .

He was then overwhelmed by a riot of inconvenient emotions boiling to the surface. Some he easily recognized, relief, excitement, resentment, spite, but others were merely confusing and would take time to unravel. He quickly shunted them to the side.

Her green eyes narrowed, almost catlike as they gleamed down at the group. She gave them a feral smile and then launched herself at the bandit leader with daggers drawn. The leader gave a high-pitched scream and was trying to scramble back when she knocked him to the ground. She gracefully tumbled to the side, immediately gaining her feet, and forced the man back with deadly slashes of her knives.

Everyone stood with mouth agape, watching Hawke tussle with the bandit, when the surrounding archers were abruptly wreathed in a wall of crackling flame. Some dropped their bows, others ran, but all of them screamed in terror and pain. Only two succeeded in stumbling away from the locus of the flames in time to drop to the ground and extinguish their burning clothing.

Finally coming to his senses, Cullen surged forward and sent out a pulse of spirit energy that flung the remaining swordsmen to the ground. He then moved over them, dispatching the first two easily where they still lay stunned. He turned to a third, deflecting a hasty blow with his shield, but as he moved to counterstrike, one of Varric's dark-fletched bolts blossomed from the man's throat. With a gurgle and a fountain of blood, the man slipped to the ground dead. Cullen didn't spare a glance for Varric but moved on to the next bandit, who was wild eyed with fear and starting to edge away.

The bandit leader was bleeding from multiple wounds when he licked his lips nervously and yelled, "Jig is up, boys! Run for it!" The few remaining bandits and the leader then turned and ran. Hawke's face crinkled in amusement as she stood back and let them go.

"Impeccable timing, Hawke. As usual," Varric said, hefting Bianca up to his shoulder with a lopsided grin.

Hawke laughed. "I guess the mythical one-armed man is starting to get a little popular, Varric. We'll have to come up with something better next time."

But before Varric could respond, a blond man holding what was clearly a mage staff strode into the clearing from behind them, eyes blazing. Thinner and scruffier than the last time Cullen had seen him, Anders had retained that desperate energy and zeal that marked him as dangerous.

"You brought a templar with you?" Anders demanded through gritted teeth. He glared at Cullen and drew everyone's attention to the former Knight-Captain. Cullen clenched his jaw as curious eyes roamed over him, measuring, questioning, judging. He remained very still, not wanting to make any sudden moves around the unstable mage. The mage who had reduced Kirkwall's chantry to a smoking crater. The mage who had destroyed countless lives and incited a war.

Hawke frowned, really looking at Cullen for the first time. "What—?" She sounded skeptical, so Anders interrupted her.

"His holy smite just now drained all my mana!" Anders looked accusingly at Varric while he pointed at Cullen. "Who is this man? Are you insane to bring him here? We spend years being careful to avoid the notice of the Chantry and then you—"

"Cullen?" Hawke gasped. Her face had gone white and her mouth was agape in surprise as she stared at him, seemingly more shocked than Varric had been those many weeks ago. "Is . . . is that really you?" Anders also gave him a confused double take, but it was the extremity of Hawke's reaction that made Cullen suddenly even more self-conscious.

Varric watched Cullen for a moment out of the corner of his eye and then intervened. "Ah, yes. Well, we've got a bit of a tale to tell, but preferably once we're somewhere no longer surrounded by suspiciously slaughtered corpses. By the way, lovely to see you both, too."

Hawke closed her mouth with a snap and gave herself a little shake. "Right. Let's get back to camp." She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Lucky we decided to do some scouting in preparation for your arrival. I had one of my bad feelings again." She dropped her hand and glanced at Cullen uncertainly, finally giving him a faint smile. "It looks like you do have quite the tale to tell, my friend. It's good to see you again. Both of you." She looked around at the others. "Let's go."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks again for reading! Next up: Chapter 3: Unexpected, where Cullen encounters Hawke's band at last and begins his lies.**


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